


Ruminate

by Nenalata



Series: Secret Little Stories [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bisexual Sylvain Jose Gautier, Don't Worry Bernie Only Gets The Good Ones, Erotic Literature, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Let's Just Ignore The Other Mentioned Characters Okay, Masturbation, Minor Canonical Character(s), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Thoughts Pre-Timeskip, So That's A Heads-Up, Sylvain Still Has Bad Habits Tho, That's For Those Characters, They're Probably Fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22329889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: “Well, it’s a,” Sylvain cleared his throat again, “complicated little piece, huh?”“I’m gonna need to…” Sylvain shook his head, and—no, no—headed for the door. “I gotta, you know. Ruminate.”“Ruminate,” Bernie echoed hollowly.“Yeah. That’s what I need to do. Ruminate. And I’ll, uh, get back to you on it?”Bernadetta wrote smutty literature and asked Sylvain to read it. Sylvain needed to ruminate first. The same fic asDirty Secrets, from Sylvain's POV, up to and including how hard he...Well.Ruminates.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Bernadetta von Varley
Series: Secret Little Stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607299
Comments: 34
Kudos: 224





	Ruminate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maybemochas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybemochas/gifts).



> Well, look who's back again: me, writing more Sylvadetta smut. Not quite a sequel, exactly, but azuriteaura asked me to write this parallel piece, bless her heart, and so here we are again, (hopefully) much to everyone's delight!
> 
> Thanks for giving me an excuse to add more much-needed porn to their lonely little tag!!! It is what this really adorable pairing deserves, seriously.

It would have been way more fun, Sylvain knew, to have Dorothea in their class. Or Hilda. At least someone with a pouting smirk, decent rack, and enthusiasm for no-strings-or-clothes-attached adventures.

Instead, the Blue Lions got Bernadetta.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t _useful_. She could shoot a wolf in the eye over bumpy terrain with high wind seconds before ditzy, curvaceous Mercedes got mauled. Bernadetta would scream the whole time, sure, alerting any other wolf to her presence, and Sylvain would have to run over and save _her_.

But Bernadetta wasn’t useful for much more than that. If he ever caught her eye in class, she’d turn beet-red and duck under the desk. If he ever ran into her in public, she’d turn beet-red and ignore him. She wasn’t even worth pursuing for that alone. She had frowzy hair too short to tangle his fingers in. She wore a ridiculous number of shirts under her uniform, like she had to protect her breasts from too many admiring stares. Her skirt, by comparison, was so _crazy skimpy_ , however, that it rendered the long socks useless for anything other than emphasizing her slim calves and bare thighs, and maybe if she put some balm on her chapped lips and stopped freezing up in battle and swayed her hips a little more, _maybe_ Sylvain would be interested…

Well, Bernadetta wasn’t interested, anyway. Looked at him about as much as he did her. He couldn’t say what her eye color was, because she’d never held his gaze long enough.

And it wasn’t like he was looking much, anyway. Nothing interesting to see. Nothing interesting to do. Meanwhile, Sylvain had plenty other things to _see_ and _do_. Dorothea scoffed and rolled her eyes and threw herself on his bed with mock derision before she scratched lines into his back. Hilda left her door unlocked most nights so she wouldn’t have to bother looking for him and could lie back and let him do whatever he wanted to her. Mercedes…looked good. Other girls were always around, other girls, other—

That skirt was so fucking _short_ and _distracting_ that Sylvain nearly got his foot stomped on and shoulder jabbed with a lance in one clumsy swoop.

“Oof, hey, watch your foot!”

Bernadetta sputtered apologies from behind the tip of the blunted training lance.

“Sorry? For what?” Come to think, it wasn’t _entirely_ his fault she’d nearly injured him in something he knew as well as breathing, touching, kissing. Better, really.

Regardless, Bernadetta had planted her feet in the training ground dust at an angle that’d get her legs broken if an axe hit her lance’s shaft wrong. And that was assuming she’d parry in the first place.

“Apologize to your _legs_ later if we can’t fix them now,” Sylvain waved her off with a calm smile. “Look at your feet.”

Bernadetta complied. Knobby knees shoved together, like a little kid, except she had curves under the skirt, and probably under the training shirt, too.

Just another woman. Just another girl. Just another face to ignore, at least for now.

“Now look at mine.” Sylvain shifted, turning off thought and letting his body do the talking. _As usual_. Comprehension dawned in Bernadetta’s eyes.

Grey. They were grey—

“Oh!”

He tried showing her, moving his legs and lance this way and that while she tried to follow along. The most inelegant of dances. Sylvain gestured to his posture, then hers. “No, you’ve gotta spread your…” _let his body do the talking_ “…legs…” _knobby knees, smooth thighs_ “…wider.”

Bernadetta did not spread her legs wider. No, she opened her _eyes_ wider, comprehension smacked out of the way to allow mortification and horror.

And Saints help him, but from head to toe, she was beet-red. Of course.

“Should I just show you?”

It was much easier to manipulate her body if he stopped thinking of her as one. Sylvain used his lance to direct hers, nudged her foot to get her to move, brushed her shoulder to push it into position. And, because their Professor busied herself for what felt like days with other students, Sylvain kept finding himself in charge of tutoring mousy little Bernadetta in something that was really the Professor’s job.

But Bernadetta relaxed fast and showed surprising aptitude for the weapon. And Sylvain found he…didn’t really mind the extra work.

Or the extra touching. Meaningless touching. Safe. Intimate in a way that promised nothing, something he felt no desire or need to pursue. Bernadetta stopped shying away, started _improving_ , and Sylvain found himself…proud.

“You’re good for something more than killing or fucking, you know,” Dorothea tried to tell him one afternoon, when she mentioned how much more at ease Bernadetta seemed around him, how _grateful_ Dorothea was. She’d sounded too sympathetic, though—some note in her voice reeking of consolation, pity, even. And Sylvain’s smirk was more sneer than seduction.

“Still pretty good at both,” he drawled. He swept the pretty little commoner off her literal feet, threw her onto her bed with a dark laugh, and reminded her just how _good_ to her he could be until even Bernadetta next door was sure to know.

And then he found Bernadetta’s manuscript.

* * *

Hilda had roped him into returning what felt like a years’ worth of library books, and Sylvain had just gotten what felt like a years’ worth of lectures from Tomas for showing up with so many overdue materials, when Bernadetta saw him leave the librarian’s office. Predictably, she turned beet-red, squeaked, and fled.

Yep. She’d definitely heard Dorothea sobbing his name into the pillow earlier. No wonder she’d tried to escape her room, find some respite in the library. Sylvain grinned at her retreating form and ran his thumb over his bottom lip, like he could still taste proof of Dorothea’s rapture.

_Aww, poor Sylvain, worth more than a quick fuck and a quick death_.

He’d given Dorothea a good, long reminder just how much he really _was_ worth. A reminder not to start thinking anything would continue past a handful of operatic scenes, that when this year ended, when they graduated, this was _over_ and he’d let some arranged trophy wife insist _she_ knew him just because his dick had filled her up, that wasn’t _Dorothea’s_ role in his future—

Bernadetta had left an open book behind.

Cruel thoughts left Sylvain’s brain as he hurried to collect the thing. If he moved fast, he could catch up…maybe. Felix had complained once how speedy she was and how irritating it could be to corner her when anyone tried to help her out. Felix terrified Bernadetta, however, so there was that.

Sylvain scooped up the book and whipped it off the table, ready for the hunt. But loose pages fluttered to the floor.

It was a _handmade_ book. A manuscript. And the text wasn’t printed. It was ink. Handwritten. Sure enough, a wet quill and inkwell lay abandoned on the table.

Bernadetta had been _writing_.

Sylvain peered around the empty reading room, like Tomas would burst from his office, having remembered another insult. But no. Empty. Silent. Not even footsteps in the hallway, echoes of voices.

He collected the fallen parchment, organized it as best he could, and began reading.

_“To a lesser man, Lord Venree seemed the very pink of proper noble breeding. From his perfectly-oiled sword to his perfectly-oiled moustache, he cut a pretty picture looming above the highwayman. ‘Any last words?’ he scoffed in a voice like honey. The tip of his blade rested above the highwayman’s throat, gentle and dangerous as a kiss…”_

One page. Two pages. Ten, fifteen, thirty, fifty—

“You’re still here, boy? Do you know what time it is? Goddess preserve me, I’m too tired to yell at you. Go home before I lock you in here.”

Fifty pages, and it was a _cliffhanger_. Bernadetta had stopped writing mid-sentence, and it was all his fault.

Well. Didn’t Sothis have a sense of damned humor?

* * *

She wouldn’t _talk_ to him about it.

Felix was right. Bernadetta could run fast. That beet-red glow of her cheeks taunted him like a distant torch in fog, an unattainable thing too far to reach. Whether she hid under the desk or zipped away as soon as class ended, Sylvain could never find a way to explain his awe. He’d barely done her work justice, barely asked for _more_ , before she’d snatched her manuscript out of his grip and zoomed off to hide.

And it was a real shame, because beyond her clear aptitude for writing…

He had some suggestions to make.

Sylvain had read more fiction than maybe all his friends combined—well, with the exception of Ashe. Even Ingrid stuck to legends and histories more than anything, and he did have three years’ worth of life over her. His father looked down upon such frivolous activities, as did everyone else he knew, so Sylvain could understand Bernadetta’s embarrassment. Frankly, he’d only kept it up because girls _loved_ a man who knew about their favorite fluffy novels and didn’t disparage them. He couldn’t even admit he _liked_ some of them, that when he complimented a girl in her choices, he usually meant it. Still—

_“It’s so nice to have someone take me seriously!”_

_“Of course! It_ is _serious stuff. You’re just like the heroine, have you noticed? The shape of your mouth, the glow of your smile, the sweetness to your words. But no more talk, got it, baby? Why don’t you show me just how_ sweet _those lips really taste?”_

But Bernadetta’s stuff could appeal to anyone. All she needed was a push in the right technical, organizational direction. A nudge. A brush. Some aid in tidying the rather haphazard last chapter.

And literature was something he knew about, at least. Sylvain sometimes _was_ worth more than killing and fucking. Not that he’d ever tell Dorothea.

He woke up early, four days after he’d found Bernadetta’s book and three days of failed attempts to catch her on her own, and left a thoughtfully-worded review on her desk. And while she’d still run—and missed class, which hadn’t pleased the Professor—at least Sylvain could congratulate himself on having done what he wanted.

“You embroidered this yourself?” Sylvain let his touch linger on the Golden Deer student’s handkerchief tucked neatly into his shirt pocket. The boy sputtered.

“Y-yeah, actually. It’s a kind of useless hobby, so don’t go, uh, telling my parents.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Sylvain smiled, catlike, and stroked his chest again, like he just _had_ to pet the admittedly pretty thing back into position. “I’m a _real_ good secret-keeper.”

“Oh,” the boy breathed, leaned in, eyes sliding closed, Sylvain’s hand crept up to his collar—

“Sylvain I’m so sorry but do you think you could help me edit my stories if you wanted you don’t have to you probably shouldn’t I know you’re busy and you don’t have time for something so stupid forget the whole—”

Sylvain whirled around to see Bernadetta wringing her hands at him, predator become prey, and the Golden Deer kid stumbled. “Are you serious?” He didn’t even bother hiding the relief, the pleasure, the excitement bouncing from his voice. “I can’t think of _any_ better way to spend my time!”

Later, much later, Sylvain found a frayed handkerchief rolling around the training ground, colorful embroidered threads torn to pieces, like the thing had taken a beating from poorly-sharpened training gauntlets.

* * *

Their little writing sessions became the highlight of Sylvain’s week.

Bernadetta always had some new material for him, whether it was a continuation of the first novel his eyes and imagination had ravaged, or a spin-off, or even some quick little piece she’d jotted down during class. Sylvain kind of wished she’d be willing to share her work with more people, but for now, he was content being— _sharing_ what she seemed to consider a dirty secret. The only one.

It made him feel almost proud.

Proud when Bernadetta took his suggestions to heart and scritch-scratched quick lines with her quill: “I think I did it almost better than you! Maybe! No, I, uh, almost as good as you!”

Proud when Bernadetta shook her head and argued with him on a plot point: “I mean, sure, maybe I need to move this part somewhere _else_ , but they need to find out about the prison _before_ they break up the ring.”

Proud when Bernadetta gave him a real smile as she finished reading a sentence aloud: “That wasn’t so bad, was it? That…that was actually really good!”

It was a little weird, in a way, going to her room so often. Even though it was for perfectly innocent reasons, the fact he needed to _explain_ that to anyone made him feel…odd.

“Our rooms are right next to each other,” Dorothea rolled her eyes when Sylvain tried to communicate this general sense of strangeness. “I think I know better than anyone what you’re _not_ getting up to, Sylvie.”

Sylvain flinched at the nickname. “I just wanna, you know, not insult her, right? We’re friends. I don’t know why I feel so bad saying ‘nothing’s happening.’ It’s not that she’s not, I don’t know, good-looking and all, but she’s just—"

“Sylvie. You really shouldn’t be talking about how good-looking _another girl is_ while the girl _on her knees in front of you_ has your dick within biting distance.”

Sylvain took her advice, grabbed her hair, and shut her up by fucking her face.

It was too weird to continue, he decided as he left Dorothea’s room after, glancing back at Bernadetta’s door. He didn’t want to be seen going down a _line_ of girls, at least not visually. Dorothea was getting too familiar with him, anyway.

Hilda’s room, at least, wasn’t directly above Bernadetta’s. Things calmed down. Sylvain felt more comfortable. Bernadetta felt more comfortable. Their weekly sessions—

“Sorry, sorry, I just woke up!” Bernadetta yawned through her apology and shuffled aside to let him in. Sylvain didn’t move.

“Yeah. I can see that.”

Saints, was that _his_ voice?

“I forgot you were coming, I’m so sorry! Oh no, it’s so messy—” Bernadetta bent over to clear her floor pillow of knick-knacks, and the nightgown, she was in a _nightgown_ , draped over her rear so elegantly, so un-Bernadetta-like, and—

Sylvain hurried inside, shut the door, sat on the chair instead, and put his hands in his lap. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I—”

“Seriously, Bernie. Don’t.”

His voice was strained, as was the fabric over his crotch. Bernadetta blinked at him, and Sylvain forced a charming smile onto his lips. “Just…my back hurts, so I’ll take the chair today, and you can take the pillow. How about that?”

“Oh. Uh, okay, I guess.”

Sylvain cast about for something to look at _besides her legs, finally hidden, but the nightgown was almost sheer, hugging her thighs, her calves, her hips and he didn’t want to_ imagine—

“I have, uh, the…chapter there. On the desk. In front of you. You can, uh, go ahead and read it.”

Sylvain made some vague sound and grabbed the sheaves of paper. Comforting in their familiarity. Fabric sliding on fabric rustled behind him, the sounds of Bernadetta getting comfortable on the pillow.

Sylvain read through her soothing prose, and before long, he was lost in the world she’d spun. The evils of Lord Venree and his smuggling ring. The wit and cavalier nature of the highwayman. The bravery and tenacity of the heroine, who was now discussing alchemical components of one of Lord Venree’s potions with a learned alchemist—

Sylvain barked a laugh, and Bernadetta hummed a question behind him. “Oh, I think you mean to spell it as ‘organism,’ and not, uh…that,” he told her, tapping the hilariously misspelled word on the page. There was _no way_ Bernadetta even knew just how ridiculous the sentence became. “Slip of the hand?” he teased anyway, twisting around in the chair to point—

_Oh fuck her legs she’d spread her legs_

Bernadetta, collapsed on the floor pillow behind him, blinked sleepy grey eyes up at his shocked expression. Sylvain kept his own eyes trained on her face, on her _face_ , because the nightgown was _sheer_ and she was _too much at ease_ and had _spread her legs, she’d spread her legs, she was lying down with her arms stretched above her with her_ legs spread wider _and_ _and and_

Sylvain stared her down with terrifying intensity, gave her the correct spelling, and did not look.

And the weekly sessions became agonizing.

Sylvain could barely stand to look at her when they talked anymore.

_Bernadetta took his suggestions to heart and scritch-scratched deep lines in the headboard while she rode him into the mattress: “I think I did it almost better than you! Well, almost as good as you.”_

The only solution, clearly, was to stop reading her work at all.

_Bernadetta shook her hair out and told him how much she craved his touch: “I need you to touch me somewhere new. I need to feel you everywhere, anywhere, before you make me come.”_

And Sylvain could stand that thought even less.

_Sylvain gave her a smile, a_ real _smile, as she finished, shuddering and clutching his still-hard cock: “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”_

_She caught her breath for half an instant, just enough to gasp, “That…that was actually really good!”_

_“Only_ good _, huh?” Sylvain brushed her hair from her face and kissed her forehead, her fluttering eyelids, her cheekbones. When he reached her mouth, his cock thrust deeper, hard enough he could swallow her loud, startled moan. “Gonna make your second time better than_ good _. I wanna make you forget any of your pretty words besides ‘Sylvain’ and ‘please’ and ‘more.’”_

Sylvain woke in a cold sweat, hard and frustrated and furious with himself and the sheets he needed to change.

For the first time in his life, Sylvain was glad there wasn’t a girl in his bed. He was in no mood to explain a stupid, inappropriate _wet dream_ , and in less of a mood to convince someone it hadn’t been about someone else. Unfortunately, he also wasn’t in a mood to convince _himself_.

Refusing to explain or convince anyone of anything paid off when the world ended and Sylvain ran home to tell his father how he’d failed to save Prince Dimitri from imprisonment, how he’d failed to save anyone, how he’d _failed_.

* * *

“Fuck, but you’re beautiful like this.”

The girl moaned hard into his palm, her hips rolling back into his, seeking a better angle from where Sylvain had her speared on his lap. He adjusted her leg, bent it so her knee rested on the bed. Pressing down on her skin, right above where the tip of his cock was driving against that perfect, sensitive part of her, Sylvain grinned against her neck when she babbled.

“Let’s go, baby. I’m gonna give you what you deserve. Gonna fuck you ‘til you forget words.”

“Yes, yes, please, please, please, please—”

Sylvain drove into her with a curse, and sure enough, she _screamed_ when he sped up to a punishing pace. His hands smoothed a deceptively tender path down her neck to cup her smallish, soft breasts. The girl whined when his fingers pulled at her nipples, and Sylvain used the slight leverage to lean back, look down at where their bodies joined.

“Sweet Goddess, you’re taking me _so_ well,” he praised her. “Look at you, taking my cock like this.” He watched his cock disappear into her and gave her a few rough, shallow thrusts, like he was worried she’d forgotten where it was.

If she had, Sylvain wouldn’t’ve been offended. He’d already forgotten her face, after all.

But the girl didn’t care, only sobbed and moaned and gasped. Yep. No words. He’d give her some. “You seem like a common whore like this, you know? Not a proper, nobly-bred lady, the way you’re bouncing on my cock,” he crooned against her ear before he knew what he was saying. “You cut such a pretty picture above me. Any last words before I fuck them out of you? Make you feel—”

_Gentle and dangerous as a kiss_.

The girl’s desperate cry echoed in his room as she came _hard_ around him, and Sylvain surprised himself by following close behind, fucking her through the aftershocks before he pulled out and spilled onto his floor.

“Oh, wow, you’re good at dirty talk,” the girl slurred, rolling off him onto his bed. “Where do you even come up with this stuff?”

_Experience_ , Sylvain didn’t say, because it was rude, despite being true. Fairly rote stuff, in a way. It hadn’t surprised him she’d come so easily, because they were standard, good lines.

But this time, they hadn’t been _his_ lines.

Adapted, sure, but…

“You’re inspiring, baby. What more can I say?”

* * *

Five years changed nothing and everything.

How could Sylvain stand to ask Bernadetta if she’d written anything new, if he could read anything, literally _anything_ of hers, when she’d filled out so nicely?

_Stylish, silkier hair_.

The knight moaned around Sylvain’s cock when Sylvain gripped him by the roots of his hair and pulled.

_Longer, slender legs_.

The barmaid wrapped her legs around Sylvain’s waist as he pounded her in the storeroom after hours.

_Small but shapely breasts through a keyhole cutout._

The soldier quickly unbuckled her cuirass and muffled her own moans when Sylvain lashed his tongue across her stiff, reddened nipple.

_Her voice—_

“You used to edit my stuff. My stories.”

Sylvain stared at a wide-eyed, pink-cheeked Bernadetta trembling above him and his dinner.

“Tonight?” she squeaked, once he’d dared to ask, once she’d dared to request, once he’d dared to accept. Sylvain hoped his relief didn’t show as he smiled.

“Tonight, yeah. Thanks…for always trusting me.”

* * *

Thank the Goddess, but the writing was chaste.

Nothing had really changed in Bernadetta’s room at the monastery. Not even in five years. Properly-watered plants, beautifully-stitched needlework, mountains of ink-scribbled paper…

Bernadetta, nervously waiting on the floor cushion.

Sylvain ignored her and focused on the words in front of him. Couple spelling mistakes here and there, which he marked for later, but for the most part, it was fun to read about the highwayman and heroine finally, _finally_ confessing their feelings for each other. Their unacknowledged tension had murdered Sylvain the entirety of school, and Bernadetta always refused to let it happen.

But now…

_“He brushed his lips over her hand. ‘The years have been good to you, my lady,’ he purred, voice heady as wine. ‘I remembered you lovely and wise. My memory, it seems, did not do you justice.’_

_‘And you…you as well, sirrah.’_

_His grin widened. Sharp. Promising.”_

Huh. Steamier than expected, but after five years, Sylvain was grateful. He kept on.

_“Suddenly, he rose from his seat. The chair clattered to the floor, as did hers when he swept her into his arms. ‘This accursed dress,’ he growled, ‘has_ tortured _me this entire evening.’ And with a harsh tug, her bodice fell to pieces in his dexterous fingers.”_

Sylvain blinked.

And again.

He checked the previous paragraph, kept reading to ‘dexterous fingers,’ and…

_Huh._

Bernadetta was suspiciously silent on her cushion. Sylvain flipped the page with shaking, less-dexterous fingers.

_“skin on skin”_

_“tongue dipped in her navel”_

_“gasps, pants, his name in her mouth”_

_“thrusting into her, ‘please, harder, I need you—'”_

_“his release deep inside, ‘I love you, I—'’_

Sylvain stared at the final sentence. Bernadetta stared at him. He shuffled the papers, which was a _mistake_ , because it brushed his cock, and he was hard, and _he was hard_ , and Bernadetta had written this, asked him to read it, it was _romance_ it was _smut_ it was _porn_ and she’d asked him to…to give _feedback_.

What the _fuck_ kind of feedback was he supposed to give?

“Well. It’s a…” _oh fuck he was hard he needed to leave_ , “complicated little piece, huh?”

‘Complicated’ was one word for it, at least. His _feelings_ were ‘complicated.’

Sylvain got to his feet as slowly as he felt himself capable. “I’m gonna need to…” _Pick a word, any word,_ “I gotta, you know. Ruminate.”

_Ruminate_.

“Ruminate,” Bernadetta echoed from somewhere outside his realm of awareness, because _fuck,_ but Bernadetta had _written_ that—

“Yeah. That’s what I need to do. Ruminate. And I’ll, uh, get back to you on it?”

Sylvain fled from her, beet-red, like he’d left something of his in her hands and she was trying to give it back.

* * *

Sylvain slammed his door closed, uncaring if Dimitri was spending an uncharacteristic afternoon in his room next door. He tripped trying to get out of his own boots.

Too hot.

He was too damned _hot_.

He yanked off his shirt, throwing the sweat-soaked thing in a corner. It didn’t help, not that he’d expected it to; his pants joined soon after.

Sparing no thought for anything save _ruminating_ , Sylvain collapsed on the edge of his bed, fisted his rock-hard, leaking cock, and moaned, “ _Bernadetta_. Fuck, _Bernie._ ”

How cute. How fucking cute. Hardly any kissing, hardly any _anything_ besides the main event.

Not in his mind, though.

_“Ah, ah, ah—”_

_Bernie’s small gasps and squeaks made him smile against her mouth. Beautiful little sounds from a beautiful little voice. He needed to hear more._

_“Mm, I figured you’d be gorgeous after all these years,” Sylvain crooned, cupping her face, pressing his thumbs into those sensitive points between her ears and jaw. “But man, I guess I don’t have a good enough imagination.”_

_“You, uh, look good, too,” Bernie stammered. Sylvain’s grin widened. Sharp. Promising._

_“Only_ good _, huh?” He cut off her protests with a hard suck on her neck. “If I look_ good _, you look_ flawless. _”_

_Bernie cried out when his tongue traced an apologetic circle on the blooming mark. Sylvain caressed her sides, running his hands up and down her curves. She shuddered in his arms when one hand brushed her breast, still trapped under her tight bodice._

_“You want me to touch you?” he murmured. Bernie nodded over and over. “Where, sweetness? Where do you need me?”_

_“Somewhere…somewhere new.” She fidgeted, and Sylvain let his thumb smooth over where he knew her nipple must be brushing against her underdress._

_“Somewhere new, hm? It’s all new to me, Bernie.”_

_“Everywhere. I need you to touch me everywhere, anywhere, everywhere, before—”_

Sylvain cursed and tightened his hand around the base of his cock. He wouldn’t make himself come just yet.

_He forced his thoughts to calmer ones. Sweet, slow, gentle, dangerous ones. Stroking his tongue along her inexperienced but excited one. Raking his nails through her hair. Hiking up her dress, sliding his calloused hands up her soft legs—_

Sylvain lay back on his bed, huffed her name— _“Bernadetta, Bernie_ ”—and squeezed the tip of his cock, hand slick with precum.

_—the laces of her bodice falling in loose strings between Sylvain’s dexterous fingers._

_“Perfect,” he groaned, and before Bernie could do more than squeak, he rolled his tongue on the tip of her nipple, licking it into a stiff peak._

_The rest of his clothes, of her dress, fell to pieces, and it wasn’t long before he had her pressed to the floor, chest against chest, skin on skin._

_“Bernie,” Sylvain said, lips trailing down her neck, between her breasts, her stomach, “I’m gonna make your first time with me so good—better’n good.” His tongue dipped in her navel, and Bernie writhed against him. His voice still held a laugh when he told her, “I’m gonna make you forget any of your pretty words besides ‘Sylvain’ and ‘please’ and ‘more.’ I’m gonna make you come, and you’re gonna feel me_ everywhere _.”_

Sylvain bit the back of his hand to stifle a groan. His hips jerked frantically into his hand, out of control, and oh fuck he was gonna—

_“Bernie,” Sylvain said like a promise, sliding inside her with a gentleness he didn’t know he had._

_“Please, Sylvain,” Bernie’s gasps and pants spilled from her lips, like a prayer, like poetry, and the sound of his name in her mouth—_

“Bernie,” Sylvain moaned, like a curse, like a forbidden word, and he was gonna come, he was gonna—

_“Please, more, Sylvain,” Bernie cried out, gripping him tightly. He was thrusting into her so fast, so deep, there was no way she wasn’t close._

“Saints, fuck, Bernie, Bernadet—” Sylvain’s hips jerked once, his fingers grazed his balls, and he—

_released inside her, her walls shuddering tight around him, Bernie cried out his name, cried out how much she—_

“OhfuckBernadetta!” and his orgasm ripped through him.

Sylvain tried to remember how to breathe, lying back on soaked-through sheets with trembling limbs. At least he’d grabbed a cloth fast enough—

Ah. It was a lady’s lacy stocking. Squashed between his footboard and the wall, forgotten from five years ago.

He laughed, then laughed again, then laughed hard enough the Professor could probably hear him below the floorboards.

Sylvain had gotten off to a sex scene Bernadetta hadn’t even known how to _write_.

And she’d asked him to… _critique it_.

Because what, she wanted his experience in _fucking_ to serve her, too?

Sylvain shook the ugly thought from his head, wiped his sweaty hair back.

No.

She trusted his feedback.

And maybe…

_“I’ll, uh, get back to you on it?”_

_She’d looked so miserable before he’d run away, come to think._

_“Yeah. Yeah, please do.”_

_Please do._

Sylvain coughed on his exhale. Maybe…

He grabbed a sleepshirt and prepared for the baths. He’d ruminated enough for now. Nothing more to be done tonight, but tomorrow…

Tomorrow, maybe he’d ruminate a little more, decide if this post- _organism_ thought was worth pursuing. But maybe…

Maybe Bernadetta wouldn’t object to some hands-on _feedback_. Let her know he’d ruminated long and hard over what to say and do for her.


End file.
